Fascinating Little Restaurants Where They Know You
by htebazytook
Summary: Crowley is bored. Aziraphale endures it. Not as dirty as it sounds, just quietly slashy.


Title: Fascinating Little Restaurants Where They Know You  
Rating: PG (for, regrettably, _Oklahoma_ allusions)  
Summary: Crowley is bored. Aziraphale endures it. Not as dirty as it sounds, just quietly slashy.  
Disclaimer: --

Author's Notes: . . . Please don't run away after seeing the word "Oklahoma".

He'd sampled numberless important cities that had sprung up over the course of history. His settling on London as a base of operations for the past few centuries was merely convenient. (He refused to say inevitable—dwelling in the biggest, baddest empire on the scene was just sense.) It wasn't his fault the angel had had the same idea; his opposite number possessed the faculty of intelligence from time to time.(1) The people of this island (a ridiculously small one, for a world power) had always held a certain appeal, and, these days, one could pinpoint the qualities of an Englishman. All they had to do was meet Aziraphale.

As for Americans, they still seemed relatively unidentifiable—or _undefinable_. By rights, Crowley should have moved to America ages ago. The British Empire had long since ceased to be so formidable as it once had been. Still, it held that peculiar appeal. In Rome, it had been lushly civilised and lushly hard-hearted; in the holy lands, significant and dangerous. But England could only be said to feel downright boring after so long. And with that feeling came an unsettling undertone of comfort. Familiarity.

In all honesty, though, Crowley would probably be moving on to America soon.

"Yes, but. What makes you think your type of . . . _guidance_ is needed there?" Aziraphale asked.

"What?" Crowley put down his glass in hurry. So much for debonair gesticulations. "You don't think I _really_ had anything to do with America?" He was feeling rather hurt.

Aziraphale missed his expression, eyes arrested by a small crowd of friends squeezing through the restaurant's congested entrance. "Well, you certainly brag enough for it," he pointed out.

"Fair enough. But it's not as though you never brag. Don't deny it." He ate more chocolate mousse at Aziraphale. Menacingly.

If angels stooped to sticking out their tongues, Aziraphale would have. His prim little _hmph_ said as much.

The newly arrived party wasn't sitting near the pair in the corner, but their easy merriment was very audible. The demon and the angel were talking in circles again. Sometimes that _got_ to Crowley in ways he couldn't explain.

"I wasn't, actually," said Aziraphale, unruffled. "Anyway, why do you _really_ want to go to the States? Is there some calamitous infernal plot at work that I should be keeping my eye on? Because, again, I feel I must reiterate that it's hardly necessary."

"No, no, nothing like that. Also, I thought you were supposed to harbour charitable attitudes toward all the peoples of the world. Or something."

"'Good and bad are but names very readily transferable to that or this.' And I _don't_ need to remind you," said Aziraphale easily, dark blue eyes on him fully, tint of warning in the gentle force of undiluted attention. _Stop telling me about myself. I can do it back_. "You are not needed in America. It's not as though Hell has given you _orders_, for goodness' sake. Besides, how could I possibly keep up with your devious wiles?"

"There are cell phones. Here, I'll get you one."

A sigh. "Honestly, Crowley. I was merely exaggerating at you. You _can_ be a bit thick, my dear."

". . . Oh."

Crowley didn't want to ruin their evening. However, his sanity demanded it be at least mildly tarnished. Force of habit. Defense against _boredom_. And so:

"Face facts, Aziraphale: England is utterly boring. Except to—and this never fails to surprise me—_the_ _English_."

"Ah, but you're wrong there. Rather, I believe the English _enjoy_ the tedio—the calm. In any event, they're not stupid."

"Okay, but—"

"Have you any idea how English _you_ are, Crowley?" Sometimes, when Aziraphale knew he had the upper hand, his eyes got near black. In the moody restaurant light, he was too contrasted and perfect-looking, like a conscientiously lit scene in a movie. "You're incurably polite to people, even when you're actively, well, messing them about. I expect it works rather better than baring your fangs at them, or some such."

"I don't have fangs," said Crowley. "Er. Right _now_."

"Of course."

They had long since finished eating and the drinks and desserts sat between them, sugary recollections to nibble at when words went away, which they had. A couple with their coats on slid past, spinning barstools because, truly, the place was impracticablycramped. A grey man was eating dinner with his dog at his feet and his family around him, but he and the dog were regulars, so it was all right. Bright, unapologetic decorations threaded their way across deep yellow walls that weren't made to look authentic because they _were_ authentic. Crowley was thinking about how he wasn't being serious, which made him wonder if he was ever serious when he tried to sound like he was arguing. It worked less and less.

"You aren't going to leave because you haven't yet," he was being told.

Aziraphale was the one with the silky voice. Crowley's was just persuasive. It could be irritating. Right now, it was being an element of the ambience. They were still in the afterglow of conversation and chocolate. It was appropriate enough.

"Well yeah. But how do you know?" Crowley wasn't aware they were no longer absorbed in the humans around them.

He stared at Aziraphale's face and remembered abruptly that the angel's eyes were not that big, even when employing the infamous terror of an Innocent Look. And when had Aziraphale and he got so close, anyway? Weren't there clattery pieces of silverware and dessert plates forming a barrier on the table?

"You've become predictable in your old age," said the angel.

"Yeah, well, you've _always_ been predictable." As he said it he thought how increasingly untrue it was.

Aziraphale seemed to think himself above responding to that, and consequently a silence of the most unnerving kind shuffled between them and was threatening to make itself at home there. So he said, irritably, "Are you ogling your reflection in my sunglasses or what? That's vanity, that is." The angel had moved even more less-far-away, he thought, disoriented. Sin to be too near to a demon. His brain babbled . . .

Aziraphale, predictably, ignored what he said. "Don't believe it's quite possible, dear boy," he smiled. And, ugh, tilted his head so his hair imperceptibly, annoyingly obscured one dark-hued eye.

Crowley did not itch to fix it for him.

"People will say we're in love," Crowley remarked, raised an eyebrow. He wasn't about to let loose the wild chuckle clogging his windpipe.

Aziraphale didn't blink, which meant whatever Crowley blinking meant. Then he smiled slowly and relaxed back into his chair. "Do you know, I'm actually somewhat horrified you know that song."

Crowley had the good grace to look sheepish. "Just the refrain, really."

"I, at least, have never been and will never be caught dead at a, a _show_," Aziraphale said loftily, but he was teasing.

"What you mean is, you've just never been caught." Crowley smiled at Aziraphale's blush. "I know a way to prove—"

"Yes, well, I _have_ always been predictable, isn't that so?"

A grin crept up on Crowley's face, unstoppable. "Shut up, or I'll start actually singing. I'm not kidding."

Soon reasons for lingering were all used up. Aziraphale paid for the food. And, even though it was the angel's turn, Crowley held the door for him to make up for it.(2) Time had flaunted countless little restaurants for their consideration, but half the fun was finding them.

Calling after was the owner wishing them goodnight as they made their escape.

The trouble was this: the owner didn't know each of them; he knew _them_. It was the same in every place they frequented—and that didn't just go for restaurants. In every place Crowley had lived, even if it hadn't been near Aziraphale, he'd had a sense of him. When dates came up in his mind, they said, That was the time I supported the rebellion and he opposed it; _That_ was the time he was angry with me—again; And that was the time we were _sure_ the world was screwed, so we danced around the Antichrist (or not, as it turned out) to avoid being reminded of it. Major events could not be let alone long enough to be simply Crowley. It was annoying like the angel when he was being really sensible.(3) Or uncommonly clever.

Why do they think up stories that link my name with yours? he thought. No, seriously; _why_?

"Don't know why I stay here," he said to the sidewalk.

"In London?" Always the same tone of voice when they talked as if they hadn't just discussed this. The trouble was they never resolved anything. Got to work on that, for a change. "Why, you have faith in it, Crowley. That's all there is to it."

"Faith?" Crowley snorted. "Nah. You've got me confused with somebody who's not a nightmarish abomination of the underworld."

Aziraphale laughed.

"You're still under the impression that I care whether or not you are," he said, being ineffable again.

The demon didn't quite turn towards him. _Here's_ _the_ _gist_: "There's still so much I don't know about this city," he said slowly. "I dunno. I mean, there's parks and restaurants and obviously there's more than just _that_, but I don't really pay attention. Not that I ever have, but I feel I should, now. You know. After the . . . in case it . . ."

"Shall we explore a bit, then?" Aziraphale asked, peering through Crowley's sunglasses.

The angel seemed strangely taller than him as he did this. Crowley could never decide if he sometimes hunched over more profoundly or if Aziraphale sometimes stood up even straighter. Neither seemed possible.

"Um. All . . ." Crowley continued glancing momentarily at Aziraphale. How to look away without seeming rude? Then, calm. "All right," he said, unperturbed about sounding that way or this.

Aziraphale took his arm and they walked through the black streets.

Brief stars faded from above. It was London's doing, the lights of the modern city shaping an aura for it. For awhile, Crowley forgot what time of year it was and whether he was cold or not. He even forgot where he was on Earth and in Time; he was, simply, here. And he figured—at least now, at least tonight, alongside someone—he didn't care about being baffled by it, either.

-----

1. He kept company with Crowley.

2. According to their rules, whoever was the first to say "It's your turn" was in the right.

3. Not Aziraphale's own definition of "sensible." (As in shoes.)

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